


Symphonies [DISCONTINUED]

by GoddessOfShitpost



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Does not have a happy ending, I hate myself, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Spoilers!, major Season 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-10 22:08:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8941321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessOfShitpost/pseuds/GoddessOfShitpost
Summary: Sherlock loves John. And John loved Sherlock. How much change can a little bit of absence cause?





	1. Prologue: Symphonies

Prologue: Symphonies.

He was complicated. He was mind-boggling. He was one of the most confusing people he's ever met. His mind was a labyrinthine system of intricate cogs and screws. He was ever so complex. He was the only person to ever understand himself.

And yet. Yet, here he is, slowly unravelling all that rusty machinery. So tired. So tired of being himself, an elaborate robot. No emotions, no heart, just stone cold instincts and intelligence. He was wired to do two things, to solve, to be witty. And John was his rest. John was the gap between all the tumultuous music. He didn't always have to be like this. He didn't have to be an impenetrable, empty body. John taught him that. John taught him to be real. To feel.

And suddenly. He's gone. Slipped away when he, Sherlock, left to protect him. Left everything, his whole life, his home, to protect John Hamish Watson. The man he called his colleague, his best friend, the man he _loved._

But...what could he do? He loved John. He's denied it before but he's sick of denying. He..He just wants it to be just like before. Solving crimes together, running away from near arrests, running away from the paparazzi. Running like nothing in the whole world could stop them. And nothing could. But, alas, no man is ever invincible. The world catches up. Sherlock gets tangled up with Moriarty. He stages his death.

And he marries Mary.

"The liar." Sherlock often whispered to himself at night, when the moonlight shone through the frosted windows and kept him awake. Sherlock loved him, but he loved her. And she made him happy. And to him, and only for him, it's all that matters.

He's happy. He's safe. What more could he ask for?

_Bang._


	2. Claire de Lune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loves Mary. Only Mary. Mary was his wife and the mother of his first child. Mary was everything to him.
> 
> But before Mary, there was Sherlock.

Chapter 1: Claire de Lune

His skin glowed in the soft rays of dawn. The constant beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound that disturbed the silence of the pristine white hospital room. John observed his illuminated features. The way his hair fell down to his forehead, his lips slightly parted and his chest rising and falling as he breathed evenly. He raised his hand to touch the tightly wrapped bandage around his pale chest. Though it was layered on so much, to avoid it opening, some blood still seeped out. The sight of it made John sick to his stomach.

"Sherlock," His hand cradled the sleeping man's face gently. "I'm going to find out who did this to you. And only god knows what I'd do to them." He whispered, almost inaudibly. As if he was even a little bit louder than he currently was, Sherlock would break.

He left quickly when Mary had texted him about needing him back home. At least, that's the excuse he wanted to tell himself. He wanted to stay with him. Climb into the sheets with him and cling onto him. No one would ever hurt him again. That's what he wanted to do. But he knew he couldn't let him wake up. He had a wife, a family. He's moved on. He might've loved Sherlock but that's gone now. He loved Mary now. He loved her with all his heart.

And yet.  
Why didn't he trust her?

Sherlock awoke a few hours after he'd left. His pale-blue eyes adjusted slowly to the bright, noon light. He looked around the room. A familiar suit jacket was there. "Jo...hn?" His voice was hoarse and his throat felt dry. He felt the bandages around his tight chest.

And the memories of the night before came rushing in.

He and John, breaking in Magnussen's office, him finding something he shouldn't have, him getting shot.

Him getting shot, by Mary.

Sherlock felt sick. "Liar, liar, liar." The word echoed through his head. Never refusing to leave, as each time it got louder and louder and louder. He buried his face in his hands, positioning himself so that he wouldn't reopen the wound on accident. He gazed at the machine beside him before cranking the morphine dosage to 5. His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar silhouette entering the room. 

"Sherlock?" It said, and what sounded like keys were dropped to the floor. "Sherlock!" It repeated. Sherlock blinked the blurry drowsiness from his eyes as he turned down the morphine. "Joh..n?" He asked, voice still hoarse but audible enough for John to hand him a styrofoam cup of water. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment as he downed the cup. John's eyes stayed on his.

"I thought you'd never wake up." John blurted out. 'Shit' He whispered to himself. If John was a weaker man, he'd have kissed Sherlock right then and there. He'd strangle him with a hug but never let go. But no, he had more self-control than that. He shouldn't love Sherlock, even if he truly did. John's mild panic was disturbed by Sherlock's soft chuckling. "What? John, my heart was stable, my condition was stable. Why on earth would I possibly die here?" He said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. John looked at him tenderly, his eyes, slightly more dull than usual, oblivious to what John felt. John wanted to say something witty. He wanted to say something a friend would say. But he also wanted him to know he needed Sherlock. But instead a frustration buried in him was uncovered. "What? Sherlock, you're dead. You've been legally dead for years. You think that I, mind you, the one who watched you jump from that hospital, would think you'd not fake your own death again? Or hell, even die for real? I don't know what's going on and why you got shot last night, but what I do know is that you're ready to die if it meant that you'd protect me. And that scares me, Sherlock. You don't know how much that scares me." John shut his mouth before he could say anything more. Not here. Not now.

Sherlock lay still in his uncomfortable bed. John glared at him. But he wasn't angry. "John, I-" Sherlock started but it was all he could say before John picked up his suit jacket and left. He'd said too much. He was afraid that if Sherlock replied, he might stay in the room for another 12 hours.

Sherlock was a genius. He didn't like socializing but he knew how to read people easily. Sherlock was never sure of it before but all the clues were laid out right in front of him. "John.." He whispered to himself, uncertainly. 

But still. Even, if he did. He couldn't. He shouldn't.

Right? _Right?_

Immoral thoughts flooded his mind. What if she was gone? John and him would be happy together. It'd be like the first time they met. Sherlock would ask him to run away with him, and without even thinking, John would say yes. And they'd go about solving crimes together. Nothing could stop them.

"But, no.." Sherlock whispered to himself. John was happy where he was.

Even if some part of him knew he wasn't.

[Claire de Lune - Claude Debussy]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can u believe these two if i was reading this as only a reader id stab me,, make a goddamn move either of u jesus christ


	3. Lacrimosa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary reveals to John who she truly is. She gives her AGRA flash drive as Sherlock questions if what he's doing is really for John or just for himself.

Chapter 2: Lacrimosa

Sherlock felt his chest getting tighter and tighter. Not just because he still had an open gunshot wound in his chest. Well, that hurt too. But this was a different kind of hurt. He didn't feel any anger towards Mary. That was John's problem to take care off. He couldn't care less if Mary was openly admitting to shooting him, unknowing that John was in the room, listening ever so closely. He felt sorry for John. Sherlock was unfeeling. Cold and calculating. But John wasn't. Thousands and thousands of thoughts, emotions must be running through his mind at the moment. He knew how that felt. He's felt the same way, once, and only once. When he gave his suicide note to John on that same rooftop he jumped from.

Sherlock stared at her. The liar. The one who shot him. John's wife.

Stray thoughts ran across his head, but he somehow ignored them, still listening to what Mary had to say. Minutes later, she was finished, and the silhouette behind her seemed to have its head buried into its palms. Sherlock hesistantly put his hand on the light switch. He didn't have to this. They might get a divorce. They could get in danger. Anything could happen and it will be because of him. 

But all of these doubts were gone from his mind when one thought into it. John deserved to know the truth. Mary was the woman he married. He needed to know about this.

"Not that obvious a trick." Sherlock said, flipping the switch. Sherlock watched her face. A flash of panic and fear and terror glinted into her eyes as she realized. The silhouette behind her started to move and Mary turned around to it. John put his collar back down. Mary looked ashamed. John looked furious and despaired.

Sherlock couldn't handle it, he had caused this. John was happy being ignorant to who had shot Sherlock. So he turned around, as if only to leave and not because he didn't want to see their faces.

When the got home, screams and tears filled the air. He had done this. All of this. Mary— if he could still call her that, gave John her whole identity. A flash drive with the letters A.G.R.A written in red ink. And Sherlock sighed. Knowing John, he wouldn't read it. He loved Mary. He might not trust her anymore, but he chose her. And it's nothing new, John always had an irrational attraction to psychopaths. 

Then, his vision got blurry and his chest felt tight. Pain overcame him. All from his chest. He said something, to both of them. But he'd forgotten, something about calling an ambulance and morphine. His mind was fuzzy and everything around him was suddenly quiet. He felt two strong arms pick him up and a flash of yellow.

He woke up in a hospital. The lights seemed to glare at him as he opened his eyes. It took a few moments to adjust, blinking away the drowsiness and confusion. He remembered what happened, although very cloudy. 

After a few minutes of thinking about the night before, he met up with Magnussen. He thought he had figured out, about his glasses but obviously that wasn't it. He talked to him. About Mary, about John. And then he left, and he didn't have anymore to say. To think about. Only remembering what happened. So he went home.

He called a cab and watched as the events unravelled again in his mind. He remembered that the time passed by quickly, but the words they yelled and the emotions they held were loud and clear for Sherlock. And before he knew it, Mary left. John didn't. John looked tired. Mary looked heartbroken. 

Suddenly the cab stopped, Sherlock unnoticing the abrupt stop. He paid him off and watched him drive away. He managed to get into the living room before collapsing on his chair. He noticed John sitting in his silently. He observed the man intently, wondering what he would do next. John fiddled with the small metal thing that could potentially ruin his marriage. Sherlock walked up to him. "Can...I at least read it? You may never know, John. We may need something from there. Mary might be in danger." He said, pretending to care for Mary. But he was curious. Only curious of what could be hiding in the tiny little device.

John looked at him for the longest second for Sherlock. 'What the hell, Sherlock? This is none of your goddamn business.' His eyes said, still glistening from the tears it refused to shed. But then he thought about what Sherlock had said. She could be in danger.

John handed him the flash drive, although hesitantly, hands still shaking with anger.

"You'd never read it anyway." Sherlock whispered as he turned away from John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas, ya'll! ❤️


	4. Sehnsucht

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loved Mary. And he hated it.

Chapter 3: Sehnsucht 

He furrowed his eyebrows at what Sherlock had said. What was he saying? Was he saying he loved Mary to the point he wouldn't care if she was an assassin? That he'd be willing to forgive her for what she did to Sheflock?

He was mad. He was furious. He was going to shoot someone with his pistol.

But somewhere in him, he knew it was true.

He loved Mary. He still did. And he hated it.

He watched as Sherlock read the file in his computer before him. Words flashed on screen, pictures, photos of Mary undercover. Guns. Bombs. Plans. Horrible things that he never knew about. And he felt horrible knowing he'd just forgive her. He missed it all. The days before the fall. When Sherlock and him would run away from authorities. When they were handcuffed and held hands as they escaped from again, the authorities. When they'd get too drunk at 8PM in the night. When they'd get arrested because they tried to solve a case drunk. 

He remembered the adrenaline involved in all of it. When they ran, when they thought. Any moment with Sherlock was energizing. Anything and everything was something new. The energy and adrenaline as they found new daring ways to escape it all. It was euphoric. Then he remembered the little time they had after each case. They'd spend it looking for the next most of the time. But sometimes, as John typed on his blog and Sherlock looked for big news, a text or a victim, he'd catch him, watching him type on his laptop. He'd just smile of course. But even he knew there was some sort of tension.

He remember when he first fully realized it. When he was a human bomb and Sherlock found him. Sherlock could've left him. He was just his friend. If Sherlock could manipulate his girlfriend so easily, why would he matter? But no, he had stayed. He saved his life. And he trusted him wholeheartedly that he would. And John wasn't stupid either, he saw how Sherlock roughly pulled off the vest from his body. Fear and relief and determination were in his eyes. He was horrified of what was going to happen if he hadn't got there on time.

But their feelings— it's not right. Not now. Not anymore. He had a pregnant wife. John thought all of it went away when Sherlock had died. He thought he could start anew. Love someone else. But nothing could compare to the adrenaline in being with Sherlock. And he hated that Mary wasn't enough. And that she couldn't be trusted. Because he truly, honestly, genuinely loves her. 

And yet, the same reason was for Sherlock. The reason why he couldn't make a move. He hated that Sherlock lived his life in danger. He hated that he had to die. Because he also truly, honestly, genuinely loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEASON 4 SPOILERS HERE::
> 
> ok but WHAT the fuck was that???? THE SIX THATCHERS MADE ME FEEL BAD FOR DISLIKING MARY. SHIT.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna be honest with yall i have no idea where this story is headed i've got a massive writer's block rn and im frustrated.


End file.
